I wrote the story two summers ago on a whim, after the first line popped into my head as I was drifting off to sleep one night: “At the lake where the water witches gathered, there lived a girl who didn’t know her own power. I was that girl.”

I keep a notebook by bed so I can jot down those random thoughts that come to me in the twilight hours, and that’s what I did. By the time I got out of bed the next morning, my brain had filled in details about the water witches, though not so much about the mysterious narrator. It took sitting down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and pen in hand for me to learn more about her.

Miranda turned out to be a college student who’s resentful of the magic that runs in her family but skipped her generation. What makes things worse is that her hometown gets run over every summer by water witches seeking rest, relaxation, and a recharging of their magic—and she works at one of the lake resorts catering to these visitors. It’s all witches, all the time, and though she’s polite to their faces, she can’t help but roll her eyes at the stupid party tricks they waste their magic on. But when Miranda meets a gorgeous and studious practitioner named Hazel, she starts to wonder if witches aren’t so bad after all.

Some days when you’re writing, every word feels like a struggle. Other days, the story unfolds almost by itself, as if by magic. That’s what happened with “Water & Air,” and isn’t that appropriate? Perhaps I should write about witches more often.

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